


Cold Comfort

by debl_ns



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 13:45:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2271963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/debl_ns/pseuds/debl_ns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gene and Sam are caught in an ambush. Later, Gene keeps Sam warm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> Written for fern_tree for the Armed Bastards Exchange using her prompt some Sam/Gene, H/C and/or whumpage and the word “freezing”.

“Bastard!” Gene's voice boomed from his office and was punctuated by a clap of thunder.

Sam set a steaming cup of coffee down on his desk. He shook his head, letting loose a small river of water which rolled down the back of his neck. 

“You're dripping on the floor, Boss,” Chris observed. “Bastard, you're soaking wet.”

“I noticed, Chris,” Sam answered. He took a sip of the coffee. It had to have been in the pot since the creation of the universe. Turning down his lips, he saw the younger man's look of dismay. “It's okay. Don't try the coffee though.”

Ray jerked his head in the direction of Gene's office. “The Guv wants to see you when you get in.” He twisted his mouth into a sardonic smile. “He's in a bastard-big mood.”

What was it with the use of “bastard” today, Sam thought.

“Tyler! I need something!”

“Yeah, a tranquilliser,” he muttered to himself with a wry grin. He lifted a stack of case files from his desk and handed them to Ray. “These need to be filed.”

“Love to, Boss,” Ray replied with a clenched jaw. “Bastard,” he mumbled.

Sam left the bullpen and went to Gene's office. He knocked and paused in the doorway. The room smelled of cheap aftershave and perspiration. Cigarette smoke was suspended like a mist. Gene was seated at his desk, peering over an open file, his new reading glasses perched on his nose. 

He pulled on his cigarette. “Bastard!” he repeated, to no one in particular, blowing a thin stream of smoke in Sam's direction. 

Sam wondered if he should be taking a collection every time the word was used. “I wonder if--”

Gene looked up over the glasses, his brows knitting together. “Of course you do,” he interrupted. “Get your scrawny arse in here.” He crushed the fag end beneath his white slip-ons.

Sam moved inside, shutting the door behind him. “And what's wrong with my arse, Gene?”

“Nothing a good feed of bangers and mash wouldn't fix. But let's save that conversation for a rainy day.”

“It is a rainy day.” Sam stepped closer to the desk, standing at Gene's elbow. He bent over the file. Water bled down his hair and splashed on to the page.

Gene inspected him from head to toe. “You're wet.”

“Sorry.” A drop of water rolled down his temple and across one cheek to his lips. He licked it off. “Cold in here, innit?” He shivered violently. 

Gene sighed, his chest rising and falling like a pitching wave. “Gladys, I don't have the flipping time for you to teach me the Jitterbug.” He leafed through the sheets of paper. “I can't find the lab report for the Davies case.” He flung the glasses on the desk in disgust. 

Sam seized the file and put the pages in order. He pulled one out and placed it on top, holding it out. “Here.”

Gene took it. “Organised little shit.” 

Sam was still shaking, and Gene glared at him. “Bloody hell, Tyler, I can't concentrate.” He held up his hand and waggled his fingers at the door. “Go to the bogs and dry yourself off.”

“Anything else?” Sam asked politely.

Gene looked at him thoughtfully. “Don't be a bastard, Sam.” 

“You owe me 50p.”

Gene pursed his lips. “I what?”

“I'm taking a collection.”

“What are you banging on about? Bugger off, and bring me back a coffee.”

The corners of Sam's mouth turned up in a small smile. “It tastes like the inside of your shoes.”

Gene shrugged. “It'll keep me going until beer o'clock.”

Sam went back through the bullpen. Ray was working slowly through the files, but, as Sam passed, Ray eyed him like he was Bugs Bunny and Sam was that twit, Elmer Fudd. He popped a stick of gum in his mouth, chewing enthusiastically like he was eating a carrot. He kept his glance on Sam's advancing back. Sam felt the gaze; it was like a tingle of electricity crawling down his spine, but, before he could turn his head, he was at the doors. He pushed his way through and went down the corridor. 

In the men's toilets, Sam grabbed some paper towels. As he dried his hair, he stared into the mirror. His reflection peered back at him, then reshaped itself. It was his face, but he was in need of respiratory help and receiving oxygen.

There was a far-off beeping of a heart monitor. 

Sam stiffened and blinked. He looked into the mirror again. He was still unconscious. The beeping sound became audible. He lifted his hand and touched his face, but the reflection didn't move with him. Sam's Adam's apple moved quickly up and down. 

“Tyler!” Gene's voice blasted. 

Sam took a quick breath, his shoulders rising. “Shit!” Now, his brown eyes gazed back at him. 

“Bloody gorgeous.” Gene flashed the keys to the Cortina. “Get over yourself. We need to get down to Bradfield Road. We have a witness who's about to piss his trousers.”

Sam put down the paper towel and turned away from the mirror. He wasn't sure if he had really seen it and he wasn't up to looking again. Facing Gene, his face was bloodless. 

Gene pressed his hand into Sam's cheek. “What the bloody hell is going on? Sam?” When Sam didn't answer, he took his hand away. 

Sam nudged a piece of dirt on the floor with his Cuban-heeled boot. “I'm fine. Let's go.”

***

DIVERSION. The sign stood in the middle of the street with an arrow pointing to the right. Pushing down heavily on the Cortina's brake, Gene wrenched the steering wheel and turned on to a side street, behind another car. He glanced casually into the rear view mirror. A second car turned into the street and followed them. 

“Are you going to tell me what happened in the bogs?” Gene asked. Sam was silent. The only sound was the rain falling on the windscreen and the swish of the wipers as they brushed it off. Gene glanced at him. Sam was looking straight ahead, avoiding Gene's eyes. Gene flicked his eyes back to the mirror. The car was still behind them, but this was the only way to go.

“And you call me a busy-body,” Sam answered finally.

Gene looked at him expectantly.

Sam touched his face. “I … I saw ...” He dropped his hand on to his thigh and stuck out his chin. “Nothing.” 

Gene searched Sam's face. “That's it? Nothing.” 

“Nothing, yeah. How are we going to play this?” he asked, changing the subject.

Gene checked the mirror. The other car moved closer. “We need more evidence. Maybe we'll get lucky and he'll give us a name. You ask the questions. If he doesn't answer them … we are out in the sticks …” Looking ahead, the car they were following stopped. The second car pulled up behind the Cortina.

They waited. The car was idling. It didn't move. “Could be a problem,” Sam said. “I'll check it out.” 

Gene watched through the sweeping wipers as Sam approached the driver's side window. He turned and smiled back at Gene before leaning down to knock on the glass. Gene heard him say, “Hello. Police. You okay?” Suddenly, the door opened, hitting him in the forehead. His eyes filled with tears. He staggered then slipped on the wet tarmac. Grabbing the door frame, he still went down and landed heavily on his right knee. Sam cried out as pain burst out and spread up his leg. 

Gene's mouth dropped open. “Oh, fuck.” His heart drumming against his chest, he elbowed the door open. “Sam!” 

Sam blinked and managed to gather his wits. “Ambush!” he yelled. He pulled himself to his feet, teetering like a child's rolypoly Weeble. 

As he exploded out of the car, Gene drew his weapon. He was bringing it up when he felt an arm coil around his neck and squeeze like a snake. “Can't let you do that, Inspector,” a voice hissed in his ear, the breath sour with an undercurrent of bitter. 

The driver stepped out and pushed Sam in the breastbone, then pushed harder. Sam took a step back but stayed on his feet. The attacker dropped to his knee, punching Sam in the bruised kneecap. Too shocked to scream, Sam crashed to the ground like a falling tree. Moaning, he forced himself up and lifted his elbow, striking the man in the head. He put both hands around his windpipe and squeezed, until he went still and pitched forward. 

Gene couldn't think about anything but the arm pressing on his throat. His grip relaxed, and the gun dangled from his fingers before clattering to the tarmac. He croaked, “If you want to paw me … and blow in my ear … you'd better be my missus.” Hearing himself, his pounding heart slowed to a steady beat and he felt a rush of power that sparked him into action. He dug his fingers into the limb and, at the same time, drove his elbow into his attacker's rib cage, forcing him loose and sending him to the ground like a deflating balloon. Coughing, Gene raised his foot, kicked him in the stomach then slammed his head into the side of the Cortina. “Bastard! Bloody hell.” 

Sam limped to Gene's side. Their eyes connected. “A right fuck-up,” Sam agreed, and he put his arm around Gene's shoulders.

***

They exited the old and noisy lift. Sam wore Gene's camel coat over his shoulders. Gene clutched Sam's arm as they made their way down the hallway to Sam's bed-sitter; Sam moved along slowly, favouring his swollen knee. 

“I need to go to work,” Sam protested.

“Ray's an old hand at dealing with scum. They give him any trouble, he'll see they come to a sticky end.”

“That's what I'm afraid of.” Shivering, Sam managed to get his key out of his trousers pocket, in the lock and open the door. He led the way into the bedsit. It was dark, and Gene hit the light switch, casting light on the room's tasteless mixture of browns and oranges. Sam threw the key carelessly on to the table. 

The heater hadn't taken the chill from the walls; even the wallpaper covered in big, ugly flowers failed to warm the room. “It's cold as Christmas in here,” Gene said, the cool air numbing his lips. “I'll probably find you tomorrow, frozen to your sheets.”

“My blood turned to jelly,” Sam finished. He shuffled to the wardrobe and pulled out a hot water bottle, hugging it to his chest. “This'll keep me warm.”

Gene shook his head. “Leave it, Sammy-boy.” He pressed his lips to Sam's ear. “You've got me,” he said, the words riding gently on his breath. He rubbed his thumb lightly over the cut on Sam's forehead, then moved it down over the bridge of his nose, across his cheek and down to the corner of his mouth. Withdrawing his thumb, Gene leaned down and brushed his lips against the same spot. “We both know this bulk packs enough heat that, before you can say Gene Genie, you'll be roasting an ox on your forehead.”

“Sexy talk, that.”

Gene snorted and inclined his head toward the single bed. “Let's climb in, warm up. Get some kip.”

They slipped out of their clothes, Sam grunting with pain as he kicked off his trousers. He lowered himself on the bed. Suddenly, he was very tired. Gene climbed in beside him, and they sank into the mattress together. Gene tugged the sheet and blankets up, and pulled Sam close. “I like my cuppa in the morning,” he declared gently.

“I know,” Sam answered with a smile, burrowing his head into Gene's shoulder. “Tea's in the cupboard where it always is.”

Gene stroked Sam's arm. “How's my Gladys? Still cold?”

“A bit, yeah. You can't feel my goose pimples? Big as golf balls.” 

“What I feel is definitely not a goose pimple,” Gene answered tenderly.

Sam tucked his feet between Gene's legs.

Gene drew his breath in sharply. “Flaming-Nora! Why did you take your socks off?! Your feet are freezing!” 

“M-m-m,” Sam sighed in contentment. 

Gene looked down at the top of Sam's head. I'll kiss him ... and then I'll kill him, he thought.


End file.
